harvest with half the young men dragged into the army to go off and fight Gyongyos. He hoped even more that he wouldn’t be one of those young men.
“Does this powersforsaken place boast a crystal?” the tall inspector asked. “I didn’t see one in your firstman’s shack.”
Waddo owned the finest house in the village. Garivald wished his own were half so large. Waddo had even added on half a second story to give some of his children rooms of their own. Everyone thought that a citified luxury—everyone but the inspector, evidently. Garivald answered, “Sir, we don’t. We’re a long way from the closest ley line, and—’
‘We know that,” the short inspector broke in. “I’m so saddle-sore, I can hardly walk.” He rubbed at his left buttock.
And we like it just fine, Garivald thought. That was one reason impressers and inspectors didn’t come round very often. Nobody hereabouts missed them. Nobody hereabouts missed anyone from Cottbus. In the olden days, the Duchy of Grelz—the Kingdom of Grelz, it had been then, till the Union of Thrones—had been the most important part of Unkerlant. Now the men from the hot, dusty north lorded it over their southern cousins. As far as Garivald was concerned, they could go away and never come back. Bandits, that’s what they were, nothing but bandits.
He wondered if they were efficient bandits. If they happened to suffer unfortunate accidents, would anyone track them down and take the kind of revenge for which Swemmel had become all too famous? His shoulders worked in a large shrug. He didn’t think the chance worth taking, worse luck. Odds were no one else in the village would, cither.
The inspectors went off to inflict themselves on someone else. As Garivald kept on pulling weeds, he imagined their stems were the inspectors’ necks. That sent him back to the village at the close of day in a better mood than he would have thought possible while the inspectors raked him over the coals.
He never thought to wonder what the place looked like to the men from the capital. To him, it was simply home: three or four lines of wooden houses with thatched roofs, and a blacksmith’s shop and a couple of taverns among them. Chickens roamed the dirt streets, pecking at whatever they could find. A sow in a muddy wallow between two houses looked out at Garivald and grunted. Dogs and children roamed the streets, too, sometimes chasing chickens, sometimes one another. He swatted at a fly that landed on the back of his neck. A moment later, another one bit him in the arm.
In winter, the flies died. In winter, though, the livestock would stay in the house with him and his family. That kept the beasts warm, and helped keep him and his wife and his boy and baby girl warm, too. Winters in Grelz were not for the fainthearted.
Annore was chopping up parsnips and rhubarb and throwing them into a stewpot full of barley and groats when he came into the house. “I’ll put in the blood sausages in a little while,” she said. When she smiled, he still saw some of the pert good looks that had drawn him to her half a dozen years before. Most of the time, though, she just looked tired.
Garivald understood that; he was bone-weary himself. “Any beer left in the bucket?” he asked.
“Plenty.” Annore tapped it with her sandal. “Dip me up a mug, too, will you?” When her husband did, she murmured a word of thanks. Then she said, “People say the inspectors were buzzing around you out in the fields.” The words came out with the usual mixture of hate and fear—and, as usual, fear predominated.
But Garivald shrugged his broad shoulders. “It wasn’t too bad. They were being efficient”—he laced the catchword with scorn—” so they didn’t spend too much of their precious time on me.” He raised his wooden mug of beer to his lips and took a long pull. After wiping his upper lip on his sleeve, he went on, “The one bad part was when they asked if the impressers had been
“Does this powersforsaken place boast a crystal?” the tall inspector asked. “I didn’t see one in your firstman’s shack.”
Waddo owned the finest house in the village. Garivald wished his own were half so large. Waddo had even added on half a second story to give some of his children rooms of their own. Everyone thought that a citified luxury—everyone but the inspector, evidently. Garivald answered, “Sir, we don’t. We’re a long way from the closest ley line, and—’
‘We know that,” the short inspector broke in. “I’m so saddle-sore, I can hardly walk.” He rubbed at his left buttock.
And we like it just fine, Garivald thought. That was one reason impressers and inspectors didn’t come round very often. Nobody hereabouts missed them. Nobody hereabouts missed anyone from Cottbus. In the olden days, the Duchy of Grelz—the Kingdom of Grelz, it had been then, till the Union of Thrones—had been the most important part of Unkerlant. Now the men from the hot, dusty north lorded it over their southern cousins. As far as Garivald was concerned, they could go away and never come back. Bandits, that’s what they were, nothing but bandits.
He wondered if they were efficient bandits. If they happened to suffer unfortunate accidents, would anyone track them down and take the kind of revenge for which Swemmel had become all too famous? His shoulders worked in a large shrug. He didn’t think the chance worth taking, worse luck. Odds were no one else in the village would, cither.
The inspectors went off to inflict themselves on someone else. As Garivald kept on pulling weeds, he imagined their stems were the inspectors’ necks. That sent him back to the village at the close of day in a better mood than he would have thought possible while the inspectors raked him over the coals.
He never thought to wonder what the place looked like to the men from the capital. To him, it was simply home: three or four lines of wooden houses with thatched roofs, and a blacksmith’s shop and a couple of taverns among them. Chickens roamed the dirt streets, pecking at whatever they could find. A sow in a muddy wallow between two houses looked out at Garivald and grunted. Dogs and children roamed the streets, too, sometimes chasing chickens, sometimes one another. He swatted at a fly that landed on the back of his neck. A moment later, another one bit him in the arm.
In winter, the flies died. In winter, though, the livestock would stay in the house with him and his family. That kept the beasts warm, and helped keep him and his wife and his boy and baby girl warm, too. Winters in Grelz were not for the fainthearted.
Annore was chopping up parsnips and rhubarb and throwing them into a stewpot full of barley and groats when he came into the house. “I’ll put in the blood sausages in a little while,” she said. When she smiled, he still saw some of the pert good looks that had drawn him to her half a dozen years before. Most of the time, though, she just looked tired.
Garivald understood that; he was bone-weary himself. “Any beer left in the bucket?” he asked.
“Plenty.” Annore tapped it with her sandal. “Dip me up a mug, too, will you?” When her husband did, she murmured a word of thanks. Then she said, “People say the inspectors were buzzing around you out in the fields.” The words came out with the usual mixture of hate and fear—and, as usual, fear predominated.
But Garivald shrugged his broad shoulders. “It wasn’t too bad. They were being efficient”—he laced the catchword with scorn—” so they didn’t spend too much of their precious time on me.” He raised his wooden mug of beer to his lips and took a long pull. After wiping his upper lip on his sleeve, he went on, “The one bad part was when they asked if the impressers had been
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